


No Good Men

by MercuryPilgrim



Series: No Good Men [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Jedi not dealing with things very well, M/M, Oneshot Prompts Challenge, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Stress, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, War and all it's horrors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPilgrim/pseuds/MercuryPilgrim
Summary: The galaxy is going to hell, and Beryon V'lante feels like he's going right along with it.
Relationships: Male Jedi Knight | Hero of Tython/Lord Scourge
Series: No Good Men [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175501
Comments: 36
Kudos: 27





	1. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beryon copes badly, and Satele isn't much better.

He can’t sit still.

He's tried meditating his troubles away like he's been taught, but it doesn’t work this time any better than it did the last few times he's tried.

His mission rings in his read every time he slows down enough to think, and it won’t leave him be.

He has so much to do.

So much to be responsible for.

It's like his mind is a carousel stuck on the fastest setting, and it won’t slow down enough for him to get off.

They're docked on Nar Shadaa for ship repairs and he's given the crew a whole day of leave. He’s antsy about it, all he must do weighing on his mind, but he also knows that a day now will save him a buckled ship later.

He can’t force the jitters away, so he stands and stretches away the aches that linger in his limbs from sitting still for so long.

The ship is quiet, the crew either planetside or bunked down for the evening.

He can sense Doc pottering around in the galley and leaves him be.

He's tempted to seek him out to talk, to slip into easy banter with someone who won’t judge him, who will grin and slap his back and regale him with stories of his own.

Beryon isn’t sure they’re all true, but that’s not the point. They’re entertaining, and that's what Doc means them to be.

He doesn’t feel up to Kira's company right now, even though he usually is. She's too perceptive. She’ll see right through his evasions but unlike Doc, she'll confront him about them.

He's not in the mood for that.

He sighs and rolls his shoulders, heading for the airlock.

He knows what he wants, what will calm him and take the edge off.

It's selfish, irresponsible, and dangerous.

It should be shameful and undignified, too.

It isn’t, at least not all the time.

He slips off the ship, warning Ceetoo that he's going to be gone for a while.

He’s not _that_ much of a fuck up.

The air on Nar Shadaa is bitter and gritty, but it's so much more alive than the uniform, recycled air of the ship.

He breathes it in, feeling the wind whip at his hair and his clothes as he stands on the landing pad.

He knows exactly where he wants to go.

The bar he slips into isn’t the roughest kind on Nar Shadaa, those are usually reserved for the swoop gangs or cartels and he’s not got the tats to bluff his way in to one of those, but it’s a step or two down from the swanky casinos and charmingly sleazy spots meant for the tourists.

The air in here isn’t gritty anymore, but it smells like stale beer, spirits, and industrial grade cleaning solution.

It’s busy and few people pay him any mind. He can feel one or two eyes on him, their attention slipping away after a few seconds.

His lightsabers are clipped to his belt, but his sash is hiding them from view enough that he just looks like a particularly armoured customer.

He navigates the people and furniture to perch on a stool at the bar, revelling in the atmosphere. No one here gives a single shit who he is or what he needs to do. It’s refreshing.

It’s not hard to pick someone up, honestly.

He just needs to sit there and nurse a drink and when he feels attention on him, give them a little smile that he uses like currency. Kira said he was ‘alright to look at’ once, so perhaps that helps. Honestly, he doesn’t get what the big deal is, but his reference has always been quite different to that of other species.

They’re not looking for _personality_ , which is a lucky thing. All they need is a warm, willing body and well, Beryon has that.

He’s outside behind the bar within a drink or four, pressed up against the wall with his pants around his ankles and his hands pinned above his head, his back arched as he stands on his tiptoes.

He’s reasonably sure the man who has picked him up is a particularly solid Zabrak, and he’s got one hand on Beryon’s hip as the other is pinning his hands. He’s biting at Beryon’s shoulder, and it’s all he can do to bite his lip and hold on for dear life as the stranger fucks him against the wall hard enough to wash away any thought in his head but how much he _enjoys_ this.

His skin is feeling hot and tingly, buzzes of intense pleasure ending in his fingers and toes every time his new friend drives into him.

This one doesn’t like kissing and that’s just fine.

He wants it hard enough to forget the weight on his shoulders, and he makes sure that’s exactly what he gets.

_Please._

_Take me out of my own head._

_I want to not be me for a while._

_Use me._

His head doesn’t start clearing until he’s almost at his ship, legs weak and thighs sticky. His knees are scraped and his jaw aches from where he choked the man down, a meaty hand in his hair and his mind blissfully blank.

He’s aching and he _likes_ that. It’s a sensation that reminds himself what he’s been up to, and he wants to relish the rebellion. His brain is still foggy from alcohol and thrill, and it makes his stomach twist.

He's sneaking back on board the ship as though he's not a mess, like he doesn’t smell like sex and another man's cologne.

Fuck, but the feeling is _leaving_ him.

He feels cold.

Empty.

Guilty for not regretting it as much as he should.

He wants to hit something, to do harm and to exert himself in another way but… well, this has to do.

The holo is beeping at him and he feels the urge to smash it.

If he could go a single day without someone putting something on his ready buckling shoulders, that would be _grand_.

Duty wars with selfishness in his heart and wins every time. Well, most times.

He pads over to the holo and checks the caller ID, the onboard system reading it aloud for him. That had taken the rest of the crew a little while to get used to.

Oh.

Well, that's _different_.

He accepts the call, and he hears the image pop into existence.

“Grandmaster,” he greets, inclining his head and hoping he’s tidied himself up decently well. He’s had a lot of practice, after all. His hair is a bit of a lost cause, but that’s no crime.

“Knight V'lante,” she greets, and her tone is fond. It jolts something in his chest. “This is just a social call,” she assures him, “I don’t have any missions for you.”

He frowns.

No missions? Why is she calling, then?

There's always something that needs doing.

When he voices this thought, the silence is deafening.

She sighs.

“Knight V'lante- _Beryon_ , I was hoping to check up on you. Have you been taking care of yourself?”

There’s a pause when he doesn’t answer. He knows the answer as well as she does.

The concern is like whiplash, and he struggles to make sense of it.

“I know we ask a lot of you.” She murmurs, and there’s sorrow there. “Too much, perhaps.”

He wants to snap, bitterness rising in his throat.

_Yeah, you do. You’re not going to stop though, are you?_

He doesn’t say that, even though there is the urge to. He would regret it.

And... well, he’s the one who keeps accepting the orders.

He _could_ tell them he can’t do it, tell them that he's cracked under the pressure and that he _just can’t._

Except he can, and he knows it.

He wouldn’t be able to let anyone else take his place, not while he's still standing.

It’s not fair to ask anyone to.

So, he’ll keep doing what he’s told, drowning himself in blood and war until he snaps and they either put him down or retire him to the Temple to slowly go mad among all the _peace_.

“I’m fine, Grandmaster.” He says instead, and his voice comes out rougher than he wants, gruff and curt.

He hears her sigh, faint and like perhaps he wasn’t meant to hear it at all.

“Where’s the little one that used to sneak into the training rooms at night?” Satele asks, and Beryon feels ice slide down his spine. Her words should be playful, but her tone is tired and sad. “He used to try and lie to his Masters about where his bruises came from.”

Beryon remembers that.

He doesn’t want to, because the more he thinks about those days the more he wishes he were back in them.

Those days seem so simple, so carefree, compared to what he wakes up to every morning now.

There’s a lump in his throat and he doesn’t trust his voice.

Satele is quiet for a moment, and all Beryon can think about is that half an hour ago he was being fucked by some stranger in an alleyway, desperately trying to feel something that isn’t _this._ He’s sticky and there’s a pit forming in his belly now, heavy with guilt at not being the perfect Jedi he should be.

It’s a jarring meeting of worlds, and in a moment of clarity he realises _why_.

The world that the Master Satele represents, the one of lessons, going to bed early and halcyon days in the sun, is _gone._

His world is smoke, blood, and a quick fuck behind a bar, dark and harsh and _real_.

“Beryon?” she prompts, soft. Her voice reminds him of grass and sunshine on his skin, of training so hard that he falls asleep before they even serve dinner.

He’s romanticising those days, he knows that, his days as a youngling were not so idyllic as he’s imagining now, but…

Her words cut him harder than any blade might have been able to, and he feels his throat work to control a noise that might have escaped him.

He wants her to go back to orders. Her tone needs to harden, to turn sharp and commanding.

He _needs_ that because he knows how to respond to orders.

This? This just _hurts_.

He recalls a moment when he was young, when she had found him bawling because one of the droids that he’d been training with alone had scored a line through his leg deep enough to cripple, and he couldn’t get up. It had hurt _so much,_ but the taste of failure was worse.

She had gathered him up, and held him close as he’d cried, dry sobbing into her shoulder. He must have been barely in double digits, and he’d been small enough to pass for much younger.

He remembered how warm she’d been, and how safe he’d felt for those moments.

Then she’d let him go and he’d let his Force senses revel in her warm, solid presence.

She’d carried him to the medbay and told him kindly to be patient. His strength would come with age, and he needed to make a home for it when it arrived.

He clenches his fists as he feels her muted grief over the holonet connection.

“That little boy went off to war, Grandmaster.” He says, low.

There’s a spike of regret, deep sorrow and some guilt that is pushed away before he can feel more of it. She’s much better at catching herself than he is, even at moments like these.

He swallows.

“I should go and prepare for our departure tomorrow.” he says, and he doesn’t care that it sounds stilted. He needs a shower. Needs to wash off the evidence of what he’s been doing. Needs to _not be here._

“Beryon,” she begins, and her voice is thick but controlled. Always controlled. He envies her, sometimes. “I’m so _sorry_.”

 _I’m sure you are_ , he thinks.

_So am I._

_That doesn’t change a damn thing, though._

“Am I dismissed, Grandmaster?”

He doesn’t hear her respond for a moment before she seems to collect herself. When she speaks next, her voice is propped up by steel. He feels guilty for wanting her regret.

“Yes, Knight. You are dismissed. May the Force be with you.”

The connection terminates too quickly to be anything but running away, and he’s left there in silence, her words lingering in his head.

_May the Force be with you._

He heads for the fresher, his skin itching and his desire to be clean turning into a desperate need.

The Force had better be with him, he thinks grimly.

After all, no one else was.


	2. “Come back to bed. Please.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their reunion goes about as well as one might expect.

Scourge was warm.

Each of his senses blinked online like an older model droid, slow and plodding.

It was a strange feeling.

Not warmth, he knew what that felt like, but the accompanying sensation of _contentment_.

It felt soft and firm in his chest, squeezing at his heart and making his belly ignite in pleasant heat.

He was still working through feelings, but this one didn’t need much scrutiny after its three-hundred-year absence.

He was warm and content, and his face hurt. It was a dull throb over one cheekbone that made his eye ache every time he blinked.

He could smell incense and fresh laundry, and there was something warm sprawled over him in the bed, curled into his side and with an arm slung over his belly.

He breathed in and out, revelling in the unhurried nature of the feelings drifting through his mind like leaves on a lazy stream.

Beryon was still asleep on him, a little pool of heat snuggled into his side.

Scourge tightened his grip on him a little, one half numb arm curled around his shoulders.

Guilt was another feeling that he was experiencing anew, but he didn’t like this one. It made him feel sick and angry, and he wanted it _gone._

The other Wrath, _Ven’fir_ , had called Beryon in with a strange expression on his face, a sad little smile moving his mouth.

Scourge had felt guilty, then. He had felt the same from Kira, standing awkwardly at his side.

They had left.

It had been unavoidable, but it seemed feelings were merciless in their pursuit of him.

Scourge was fuzzy on some of the details, but he knew Beryon had not had an enjoyable time during their time away.

The Jedi shifted in his sleep, and Scourge glanced down.

He looked exceedingly small next to Scourge’s own bulk, curled up as he was.

Scourge ran his eyes over his form, taking in the swell of his arms, the scars over his hands and cheek, and the curve of his hip.

All this was familiar, and yet _not._

When they had parted for the last time, he recalled with pitiless clarity how he had felt the brush of emotion against his own senses, a quick surge of unfamiliar longing that wasn’t his own.

He had pushed it aside, unimportant. Beryon had felt the sound rejection and said _nothing_.

He regretted few things more, even though he knew that he hadn’t been in a state to return those feelings at the time.

Still, the unbridled joy at feeling that ball of prickly energy getting closer and closer had been nothing compared to when he’d _seen_ him.

Scourge wasn’t going to admit it to Kira, but he had been at a loss for words in that moment.

For a few precious seconds, he’d simply drank him in.

Physically, he looked almost the same as he had done five years prior. More tired perhaps, with deeper lines on his tanned skin and a fresh aggression in the way he squared his shoulders.

He’d stopped dead when he’d felt Scourge and Kira, his mouth falling open as he went slack with surprise, his whole body falling out of tension and back into it within moments.

He curled his fists, and Scourge fondly let the spike of anger jab at his own senses.

“ _You_ ,” Beryon had snarled, and Scourge had felt Kira wisely back up out of the blast radius. The Commander was already out of range. Smart.

Scourge had never been one to take the easy path and angled himself to face the little Jedi that carried himself like he was twice Scourge’s height.

Feelings, overwhelming like a wave cresting over his head, threatened to wash him away.

“You fucking _coward_!” Beryon had roared, marching straight for him. His fury was a delicious, filling thing.

Scourge just watched him, drunk on his presence and how his own belly twisted with some strangely ticklish feeling.

“Jedi,” he greeted, pitching his voice low, “It’s been- “

He didn’t make it any further than that.

He felt a sharp impact of pain and his vision whited for a moment, a dull thud meeting his ears as he reeled back, surprised, from the force of it.

Beryon had just _punched_ him.

He opened his eyes again when he felt something grab at his clothing and pull him down, only to feel lips on his own.

Beryon was kissing him, desperate and hard, like he was trying to pour everything he wanted to say into that kiss.

Eyes still stinging from pain, Scourge gathered up in his arms and kissed him back. He pushed his feelings at the man in his arms, and felt him drink them in.

Through the haze of pain and fiery delight that curled his toes (oh, this feeling was a _good_ one), he vaguely registered Kira’s surprise and amusement, and the Commander’s humour.

He brushed them aside, content to stay cradling this bundle of warmth, so harsh to everyone including him, but so very worth protecting.

Beryon was the one to pull away first, his cheeks flushed, and his expression pinched.

“I missed you,” he muttered gruffly, his voice breaking on the last word. “You fucking _left me.”_

Scourge wanted to bundle him up and show him just how much he meant to never leave him again.

So, he did.

He bent and heard a confused, startled noise from his Jedi before he was hooking an arm behind his knees and scooping him up to put him over his shoulder.

He was heavy for one so small, and Scourge knew only part of the was the armour.

His Jedi was made of muscle, and he cast an appreciative eye to the behind that that was displayed so temptingly a few inches away.

Beryon yelped, squirming and cursing at him.

It was quite the impressive litany, and Scourge was sure those were some new ones in there.

He could feel how his Jedi was struggling against his grip but while he was tough and strong, Scourge had the advantage of size and affection. Beryon didn’t want to hurt him, not _really_.

He could feel it in that ridiculously open presence.

Kira couldn’t help but laugh.

“This is hardly the most dignified reunion, Master!” she teased, grinning. She was _radiant_ in her happiness, and Scourge would never _ever_ tell her this.

Beryon snarled out more violent sounding curses, and Kira cackled.

“Aww, you’re so red! Give up Master, I don’t think he’s letting you go.”

There was a chuckle from the corner where the Commander had sequestered himself, and he was looking deeply amused by what he was looking at.

“And to think,” he drawled, levering himself off the wall and moving to stand just out of reach of the furious Jedi who was swatting at him like an angry cat, “All those times we tried to kill each other and all I needed to do was kiss you and pick you up.”

Beryon, red faced and twisting like the cat Scourge privately thought he was just like, spat curses at him as he tried to get a hold of the smirking Mirialan.

“Polaris, you sack of fuck, I’ll wring your damn neck!”

The Commander just gave him a deeply smug grin, and wiggled gauntleted fingers dangerously close to the spitting Jedi.

Scourge just held on tighter.

Kira snickered, delighted.

“We can catch up later, Master.” She grinned; her eyes bright for the first time in years. “I don’t want a black eye too.”

Beryon spat something violent her way and she laughed hard enough to prop herself up against the wall.

Scourge, eye throbbing and affection burning in his belly, adjusted his grip and headed for the door.

“Where are your quarters?” he asked the struggling Jedi.

“Fuck you!”

He sighed.

“Commander, where are his quarters?”

The Mirialan grinned, and Scourge decided that he liked his fellow former Wrath's style.

“Residence wing four, room 403.” He supplied sweetly, his grin widening as Beryon’s fingers came dangerously close to grabbing him.

“Be careful with that thing.” He warned Scourge, deeply amused. “I think it bites.”

Scourge nodded to him, serious.

“He does. I can handle him.”

He headed for the door, grip firm, and pretended not to hear the Commander mutter ‘I bet you can’ under his breath.

“I’ll _kill_ you, Polaris!” His Jedi threatened, and he heard the Commander laugh.

“I’m thinking that you won’t be in a state to do much, soon!” he cackled, and Scourge wasn’t about to correct him.

The door slid shut and Beryon didn’t stop struggling, but he did sag for a moment against Scourge’s hold, his breathing heavy and his presence prickling with embarrassment.

“Scourge?”

“Yes?”

“Let me down.”

“No.”

Beryon sighed, letting his forehead fall against Scourge’s shoulder blade as he was carried. He hid his no doubt burning face, trying his best to ignore the whispers that followed them as Scourge plodded through the corridors, the lines painted on the floor giving him an idea of where to go.

Beryon committed to his stony silence for the next ten minutes it took for Scourge to reach the residential wing and come to a halt outside room 403.

“Access card?” Scourge prompted.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Sighing, Scourge fought not to smile with fondness, even though his dear Jedi wouldn’t have been able to see it.

He brought up one hand and, keeping the Jedi in place over his shoulder, gave him a limited pat-down.

Beryon jumped at the sudden touch, his presence firing with embarrassment and a thread of arousal that he desperately tried to suppress. Finding the card in one of his back pockets, Scourge let himself take a moment or two to appreciate the firm flesh under his hand before he dipped into the pocket and withdrew the card.

A little beep heralded the lock disengaging, and Scourge entered the room. It was as plain and practical as he had expected, but there were signs of personality here and there. A sweet-smelling plant in a pot on the desk, a soft looking throw over the bed, and the holoplayer that was left muted on one of the music stations. They were trivial things that hinted at someone who liked small comforts for his senses, little things that quietly made him smile.

Spotting his target, he crossed the room and tossed the wriggling Jedi onto the bed. He bounced with a yelp, arms immediately moving to stabilise himself and spring to his feet to no doubt try to give Scourge another black eye.

Before he could do so, Scourge was on top of him, bracketing him in with his arms and his own bulk.

Beryon could absolutely get himself free from something like this, but he fell still, his mouth slightly parted and his cheeks burning a sweet shade of crimson.

Scourge felt him move, his hands coming up to gingerly run over his armour, and then his neck and jawline. His hands were gentle in a way they often weren’t, his fingers rough and calloused from years of wielding his blades.

“I…” he started, his voice hoarse and quiet. “I missed you.”

Scourge let the warmth flood his body at that, revelling in the feeling.

“And I you.” He said simply. Unable to deny the impulse, he bent his head and kissed the man beneath him soundly.

Beryon melted into him as he kissed back, and his mouth tasted like caf and mint.

When they had to pull apart, Scourge wanted nothing more than to stay close, so he did. He let himself tip sideways to curl close, but he wasn’t expected Beryon to swing a leg over him and straddle him.

His hands settled on his Jedi’s hips, and he felt his warmth seep through their clothes.

“Let me see you?” he heard his Jedi murmur, and he made a noise of assent. The hands returned to his face, gentle and yet firm, mapping out his every feature.

He had done this when they had first met, but back then his touch had been quick and clinical. Scourge had borne it, not feeling anything but vague impatience.

This time, it felt… reverent.

Sensual, almost.

Soothing.

Beryon was _looking_ at him, perhaps not in the way other species did, but somehow, he felt more naked than he ever had under a gaze.

He breathed out, concentrating on the feeling of those battle worn hands on his skin, brushing over the ridges and his tendrils. The pad of one thumb brushed the bow of his lip, and he watched as Beryon breathed in sharply as he did so.

He was rumbled and worn, the lined in his face deeper and his temper frayed to snapping point, but he was as lovely as the last time Scourge had seen him. This time, he could appreciate him properly, and return the feelings that had been so absent when he’d brushed Beryon’s aside.

His Jedi withdrew his touch, setting his hands to rest on his chest, his expression pained and serious.

“Scourge?” he murmured and shifted minutely when Scourge tightened his grip on his hips in response. “Why are you doing this?”

A fair question, he supposed.

“Because my feelings have returned and with them, the knowledge that I love you.” He said simply, not feeling like mincing words.

Beryon swallowed, his throat working over the action like it hurt.

“I… You fucking asshole,” he managed, voice breaking. “You come back after so long and… and you just _say_ that?”

Scourge smiled and raised a hand to brush the back of his knuckles over a scarred cheekbone. The three deep scars that ran down the side of his face were a gift from the Commander, back when they had been mortal enemies. How times had changed.

Beryon leaned into the touch, and a shiver chased down his spine.

“Yes. I do not feel the need to lie or wait. I love you, and when you kissed me, I knew that _you_ still loved _me_.”

Beryon sighed, and it looked as though it was as much to soothe himself as it was to express displeasure.

“We’re going to have a fucking talk about what you are Kira were thinking, taking off from me.” He muttered, and he suddenly looked very tired. His cheeks were still pink, and his hair was sticking up from their tussling.

Scourge smiled indulgently.

“I would expect no less. Now though, I wish to hold you.”

The blush came back in full force.

“ _Just_ hold me?”

Forward. There was his Jedi. Affection was a lovely feeling, and one he wanted to dissect later.

“Do you still want me to hold you down and fuck you until you can’t form a coherent thought?” he asked, absently tracing nonsense patterns on Beryon’s hip through his clothes.

“Was I really that obvious?”

Scourge let himself laugh, and relished the light feeling in his chest. Another one he liked.

“You were _extremely_ obvious.” He admitted fondly, “I just never had the ability to do anything about it. Rest assured, I am more than eager to make up for lost time.”

Beryon’s cheeks were crimson again, and Scourge was acutely aware how pleasant his weight was, and how he very much wanted to see those layers of clothing and armour stripped away.

He would be _beautiful_ , he was sure.

He had memories of seeing him shirtless in the training room or coming out of the fresher, but to see him completely bare and head thrown back in ecstasy? Now that was something he _needed._

He needed to hear the noises he would make, and to see how his face moved when he was loving what was being done to him. He wanted to hear gasped words and long moans, and to see how his body reacted to each touch.

Beryon shifted awkwardly.

“It's uh, been a while.” He muttered, shoulders tense.

“How long?” Scourge asked, curious. He knew this Jedi didn’t stick to the unwritten rule about sexual liaisons, and he recalled him stumbling back after shore leave once or twice.

“Six months, I think.”

He frowned, an unfamiliar slimy feeling curling in his belly. It felt like his insides were squirming, cold and unpleasant.

Beryon seemed to feel whatever it was that was washing over him and raised an eyebrow.

“Were you expecting me to say six years? That I wouldn’t sleep with _anyone_ while you were gone?” he asked, a little defensive. “We weren’t even sleeping together _before_ you were gone, remember. No, sometimes I needed a little comfort. A quick fuck in the back of a dirty cantina did me fine.”

Scourge tightened his grip, the squirming feeling growing stronger.

“Not anymore.” He grunted, deciding that he didn’t like _this_ feeling.

Beryon, flushed and pressing close, gave him a sly, awkward little smile.

“Are you saying that you _wouldn’t_ fuck me in the back of a dirty cantina?” he murmured, low. He was leaning in now, and his mouth looked inviting when curved into a wicked little grin.

That image was battering away anything else in his brain, barging to the front of his thoughts.

Beryon, legs spread, back arched and standing on tiptoes with his cheek pressed against a wall, moaning as he took it, Scourge standing behind him and gripping his hips hard enough to bruise.

He swallowed painfully, and Beryon seemed to read his thoughts.

“Mm, I think we have our answer.” He teased.

Scourge, not used to regulating his newfound impulses, pulled him down for a kiss, and he felt his Jedi smile against his mouth.

Yes, he thought as he held him close, this was what _bliss_ must feel like _._

* * *

He awoke again with a start.

He had fallen asleep while he was reminiscing.

The bed was cool at his side, and he could hear the shower running behind the closed fresher door, steam curling from underneath.

He steadied his breathing and slumped against the pillows.

They hadn’t slept together the previous night, both too tired and emotional to be in the mood for more than some kisses and holding each other.

Remembering their teasing though, had reawakened the feelings that had cooled with sleep.

The sound of the fresher shut off and Scourge felt his mouth go dry as Beryon emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel around his waist.

His skin, still deeply tanned, was marked with scars and the occasional fading bruise. He was short and muscular, with broad shoulders and a solid frame. He was a little powerhouse, but Scourge wasn’t suicidal enough to call him that to his face.

His skin was covered with little droplets of water, and he was fiddling with his sleeping blindfold, reattaching it over where his eyes would have been had he been human. He wore a simple, soft one to sleep in, feeling uncomfortable with a bare face after so long wearing a blindfold.

He jerked his head up when he felt Scourge’s attention on him, and his cheeks coloured.

“Morning,” the Miraluka greeted, gruff and pleased.

Scourge felt fire ignite in his belly.

“I think we should get started on making up for that lost time,” he rumbled, seeing Beryon shiver. The need was sudden, and it took his breath away. He wanted to lick those droplets off one by one. “Come back to bed. _Please_.”

Beryon, cheeks pink and the blush spreading over his collarbones in a way that make Scourge lose his mind, grinned.


	3. “You should’ve listened to me.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scourge doesn't think much of his new Jedi companion.

Scourge watches the Jedi.

He’s a little thing, barely taller than Scourge’s shoulders and with an attitude akin to a rancor with toothache.

He’s gruff and coarse, his presence in the Force tightly bound and prickly to the senses.

Scourge is watching him as he stretches, the cargo bay taken over and changes into a training area for the duration.

He’s changed out of his usual armour and is in something close fitting and practical, and he spies the other Jedi getting an eyeful. She smirks at him, dressed to spar herself.

Her presence is fresh and lively, like a winter stream. She bites if you’re not careful, but she’s refreshing and spirited.

The little Jedi is the one from his vision, but Scourge is a little disappointed. He could be so much more than he is, but he squanders his potential on rules and strictures.

It’s pathetic, and while he doesn’t regret what he’s done, he’s already eager to improve him.

His face seems to show something less than neutral because the redheaded woman, Kira, glances at him. She’s protective, fierce, and blunt.

“You don’t have to be here,” she says, rolling her shoulders. “If this is so _intolerable_ for you.”

Scourge glances her way, and she meets his eyes with a challenge.

“It is not,” he intones, his eyes moving back to where her Master is warming up. “I am merely observing.”

“I noticed that,” she says mildly, a hint of derision in her tone. “You’re observing _and_ judging.”

“Is that a crime?” he asks, baiting her. He doesn’t feel amusement anymore, or even remembers when he did, but he’s curious to see how she will react.

She rolls her eyes.

“No but staring at him like he’s wronged you tells me you’re not coming to any good conclusions.” She mutters, “And we don’t need that, not now.”

Scourge sees the point she’s trying to make but shakes his head. He’s only been with this crew for mere weeks, the feeling of being away from the Emperor’s presence a breath of fresh air after so long. They’re still shaking off the effects too, Kira having been in the medical bay for several days before being allowed out on pain of fussing by the moustachioed medic. Still, to wallow in pain is to be _weak_.

They need to be stronger, to fight through what should kill them. They should be arming themselves with the spike of their pain, not preaching and meditating.

He frowns.

“Yes, you do.” He disagrees. “You cannot let yourself get weak, get _soft._ ”

Her expression turns into a frown.

“Leave him be,” she warns, “Don’t think that he’s your plaything, Sith.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Is he not?”

He has, after all, felt the beginnings of attraction coming from the little Jedi. It’s nothing he’s going to do anything with right now, but it’s interesting to note what his weakness is.

Men.

Hm, a cheap weakness, he decides.

It’s one he can use, though.

The Jedi had demanded to touch him when he had first come aboard, his tone cool and flat.

Scourge, understanding, had let him.

The touch had been quick and clinical, the rough pads of his fingers tracing his features and presumably committing them to memory.

The Jedi had had to stand on his tiptoes.

Kira scowls.

“He is _not.”_ She stressed, before folding her arms. “Get in there, then.”

He tilts his head, but she refuses to buckle under his gaze.

“If you think he needs to be taught a lesson, go and do it.” She says, tossing her head. “Don’t just stand there and complain.”

She has nerve and Scourge isn’t fond of being mocked, but she does have a bit of a point. He shrugs and reaches up to disengage the clasps on his cloak.

“As you wish.”

She watches him, eyes narrow.

“Be careful.” She calls, and he’s not sure if she’s being serious or not. He settles on ‘not’.

Scourge rids himself of the more cumbersome pieces of armour, and steps onto the mats that have been laid out. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the medic slip in and lean against the wall next to the other Jedi. She rolls her eyes at something he says, and he grins.

The little Jedi turns, and Scourge takes him in.

He’s deeply tanned from long hours outdoors, and his hair is rumpled from where he’s run his fingers through it. His blindfold is secure around his eyes, and Scourge wonders at that. He’s a Miraluka, and Scourge has never worked with one of _those_ before.

He’s very solid, and his shoulders are broad for one of such small stature.

... Still, he’s _little._

“Are you stepping into the ring, Sith?” he asks, wrapping his hands.

Scourge nods, then realises that the Miraluka can’t see him. Mouth thinning, he responds.

“Yes. I will spar with you.”

The Jedi raises an eyebrow, hands moving.

“How _generous_.”

He clearly thinks Scourge is full of shit, and it’s refreshing that he’s not afraid to hint so. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of much.

“Aren’t you going to warm up?” he asks, tilting his head. The effect is odd with the blindfold.

Scourge scoffs.

“An enemy will not wait for you to finish your stretches.” he says, settling into a comfortable position.

The Jedi rolls his shoulders, mouth thinning.

“I’m not the enemy,” he grunts, assuming a stance. Suddenly, he grins. It’s sharp. “Yet.”

It’s a common stance, and he holds himself tightly coiled.

… How is he even going to _see_ -

The Jedi darts forward and seems to drop to the floor, held up by his arms as he uses both legs to sweep Scourge’s own. Scourge’s senses are suddenly shouting at him as he feels his legs get taken out from under him, sending him crashing to the mats in a jarring heap.

So, he _might_ not have expected that, and his muscles are a little slow for not warming up. He frowns, the wind knocked out of him.

The Jedi stands, makes a show of dusting himself off, and grins down at him.

“An enemy won’t wait, right?” he teases, and offers a hand.

Scourge can hear Kira cackling, and takes the hand.

With a yank, he’s sending the Jedi off balance and flailing. He rights himself and then they’re trading blows.

Scourge is… _trying_. He’s breathing heavily and now his muscles have warmed up, and he’s tiring in a way that he hasn’t felt in decades.

The Jedi is fast and strong, and he knows how to use his size as an advantage. Scourge could send him flying with a sweep if he’s caught in one, so he makes sure he never is. He’s flexible and he plays dirty. He’s ended up on the floor as much as Scourge has, but he keeps getting up.

If Scourge were capable of it, he would think he was having _fun._

They’ve been sparring for long enough that his Jedi’s hair is matted into sweat damp spikes and he’s breathing hard, a grin stretching his mouth. They’re being harsh with each other, and there’s a bruise blooming on one cheekbone, turning an ugly red over tanned skin.

His Jedi ducks under a hit that would have lifted him off the floor and straight into a knee that takes the wind from his lungs. He rolls with it and doesn’t try and breathe in until he’s done, to avoid choking as he sucks air in.

He someone gets behind the arm that’s still outstretched and grabs it, and Scourge can feel a wash of pain as his arm is bent in the wrong direction at the elbow, and he must move or something will break.

His opponent uses that momentum to duck under him and, with a huge exertion, executes a throw that sends Scourge over his shoulder and crashing to the floor where the Jedi straddles him, one hand resting against his throat gently. A hit there would collapse Scourge’s windpipe.

His opponent grins down at him, breathing heavily and exhausted.

Scourge can’t help but smile back, head swimming.

Well then.

They’re awfully close, and their bodies are so warm from their exertion he’s surprised neither of them are steaming.

The Jedi is flushed, and Scourge can sense the attraction simmering beneath the other man’s skin flare.

He feels the hand leave his throat, so he reaches up and settles his hands around the Jedi’s waist. With a little application of strength, he’s picking him up and standing, setting him on his feet again.

The Jedi stumbles a little, his face turning crimson and that attraction turning into a bonfire.

So, he liked being reminded of their size difference? To be manhandled?

Good to know, perhaps. 

“Good match, Jedi.” He says as he controls his breathing, bowing low enough to be respectful. The Jedi has earned it.

“You too,” is his response, awkward and a little hoarse. “Uh, we should get checked over.”

Scourge has no intention of letting that medic fuss over him, but he nods anyway. He heads for the exit, intent on getting to the fresher first.

Kira smirks at him from where she’s lounging against the wall.

“You should have listened to me.” She says, smug.

“I may do so in the future.” he allows, leaving before she can tease him again. He's being honest. He _might._

As he walks, his body aching and his pride only a little stung, his head is alive with buzzing thoughts. He feels so _alive_.

He has a lot to think about, and it all orbits a Jedi with a presence like thorns.


	4. “I haven’t seen you in days.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming back from battle is worse when there's no one waiting for you.

The ship isn’t cold, but it feels like it is.

Beryon fumbles for the control panel and cranks up the heat, listening to the hum of the internal systems as he drags himself to the nearest chair and collapses in it.

The wound on his belly burns like acid, and he controls his breathing as the pain fades to a dull throb.

The ship is too quiet.

He can hear the pull and wheeze of the CO2 scrubbers, feel the vibrations from the engines and hear the thousand and one little machines that keep him alive in the vacuum of space.

There’s clunks and whirrs and beeps, the occasional hiss or a rare whine.

It's still far, _far_ too quiet.

Doc should have been hurrying out of the medbay with his bag in his hands, pushing anyone out of his way because nothing would get between him and someone who needed him.

His moustache would be downturned in concern, his hands steady as he berated Beryon for not being more careful.

Kira would have been hot on his heels, reaching out with her senses to see if he were truly as alright as he gruffly said he was.

She would burn bright in the Force, like sunshine that hurt your eyes and prickled your skin.

Rusk would be there, standing back and watching because he knew how to take a step back if he needed to. He wouldn’t have anything to say, because he knew as well as Beryon did that soldiers got hurt in war.

Scourge would be radiating displeasure, not bothering to hide it.

Massive arms would fold over is chest as he hovered and almost got in the way, daring Doc to tell him to back off.

T7 would be fussing in their own way, beeps and whines that conveyed more emotion than some organics did. Doc would answer him as he worked, not wanting to worry the little droid.

There isn’t any of that.

It's quiet.

That hurts more than his wound does.

The emptiness presses down him in like a physical weight and he can’t tell if the tightening in his lungs is from nostalgia or panic.

He breathes deeply, tasting the recycled air and letting the sounds of the ship was over him. The atmospheric systems are already doing their job and putting out heat, and it makes things feel less unpleasantly still.

He curses as he sits up again from where he has been listing, and his belly flares with pain.

He'd been planetside for supplies when the bomb had gone off.

Swathed in a hood and robe to hide his armour and weapons, he'd been buying food and essential items and hoping no one recognised him.

He didn’t want Skytroopers descending on the market just because of him, after all.

As it turned out, it didn’t matter.

The speeder had been a completely innocuous one, and Beryon's senses had warned him far too late.

It had detonated without warning, and then everything was smoke and _fear_.

Once he had gotten his bearings, the smoke stinging his throat and his head ringing from the blast, he hauled himself up and immediately doubled over in pain.

Something, most likely shrapnel from the speeder, had hit him in the stomach, glancing his side.

The wound was pouring blood and he scrambled to staunch it.

He wasn’t a particularly good healer, but he could cobble together enough concentrated power to slow the bleeding to a sluggish seep.

He fumbled for his belt and jammed a kolto stim into the skin near his wound, gritting his teeth at the fresh wave of pain.

A few seconds, and he could stand.

If he could stand, he could help.

The air was thick with acrid smoke and the taste of burning fuel, and he could hear the sounds of flames and panic.

Rubble was scattered around him, the debris of ruined market stalls and a collapsed storefront.

He got up, ignored the pain, and started pulling the nearest person from the rubble.

He directed the survivors with barked orders and authority in his tone and they jumped to obey, too shell-shocked to put up any resistance. He reached out with the Force over and over again to lift rubble, heal injured civilians and keep himself together.

By the time the medics were on site, there was a concerted relief effort going, those who were less harmed steadily helping those who were injured or in shock.

Beryon pulled a limp little form from under a collapsed awning, his head swimming.

He could sense a flicker of life from this one, not like the others.

Please.

 _Please_.

A horrified cry and there were hands in his way, a babble of terror from a mother who could see him cradling her child in his arms, covered in blood and dust.

He pushed past her and laid the precious bundle on one of the stretchers, and he felt her start to fade.

He pulled on the Force again and it came sluggishly. He was exhausted and in pain, and it showed.

He laid his hands on slight little shoulders and _begged._

The Force answered, and there was a mother clinging to her little one and hiccuping out her prayers.

The little girl stabilised at the same time Beryon's legs gave out from underneath him.

The impact with the ground sent a fresh wave of nauseating pain through his body and straight to his head, and he had to grit his teeth to stop from screaming.

He breathed deep, already compartmentalising the pain, and shoving it away for later.

He wasn’t done.

He couldn’t stop now.

With a grunt, he pulled himself up.

There was a medic trying to offer him a blanket, but he brushed them off.

“Where do you need me?” he rasped, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “I'm a Jedi.”

He'd never felt so much _relief_ at his presence before.

Usually, it was terror.

He pushed himself to keep helping, to keep dragging bodies from the rubble and to use the Force to stabilise buildings that had half collapsed.

Someone offered him a place to sleep, and he took them up on it, crashing on their sofa for barely a few hours before he was out again.

His head swam and his thoughts were strangely blank of anything but the moment.

He was not bothering to keep himself hidden, save for the few minutes some Skytroopers came by to assess the scene.

They left without any promise of aid, and Beryon could hear the furious whispers that followed the droids.

Zakuul had occupied the neutral planet but seemed disinclined to _do_ anything with it. Radicals had taken to terror attacks to try to force the planetary government to rebel and fight back.

Beryon understood the sentiment, but if he got his hands on the kind of people that would set a speeder bomb to go off in a crowded marketplace, he'd beat them until they couldn’t walk before throwing them to the authorities. That was if they were _lucky_.

Accents washed over him, Republic, Imperial, and everything in between.

Frightened.

Tired.

He swallowed and answered a call of his name as he tried not to think.

He groans as his head swims, and he pushes the memories to the back of his mind.

He's catching his breath, his body on the cusp of complete exhaustion.

He listens to the hum of his ship and his own rasping breathing, and he can almost imagine that he can hear his crew.

Rusk had been the first to go, pulled away to be deployed elsewhere, before they decided that fighting was pointless.

He’d saluted as crisp as he'd ever done, his expression as close to emotional as he had ever let it be, his small holdall by his feet.

“It's been an honour to serve with you, Master Jedi.” He’d said, loud and proud. He'd meant every word.

Beryon had saluted back, feeling like this was the beginning of something that he wasn’t able to stop.

Kira and Scourge had been next, much later. The Order had recalled them, but Beryon wasn’t going back.

He couldn’t, not to sit on his hands and meditate the days away while the galaxy burned.

Kira had cried into his collar, her arms around him. She wouldn’t beg him to stay, and he appreciated that. It would have hurt to have pushed her away.

Scourge stood waiting for her, his presence tightly leashed and grim.

Beryon had felt things slipping between his fingers like sand and had let a tiny tendril of feelings slip when they clasped forearms.

He tried to cover his slip, to snatch back the affection and fear, but it was too late. It was disappearing into the void that was his Sith companion, like water down a plughole.

It had no right to hurt.

That didn’t mean it didn’t.

“Please,” he'd murmured to the Sith, “Keep her safe. She needs you more than I do.”

It was true. Kira would need Scourge, but Beryon _wanted_ him.

War was no place to be selfish, he knew. She would need him if the storm that was brewing was to be as terrible as Beryon expected it to be.

Doc was the last to go.

The medic had held out as long as he could, staying on the mausoleum of the ship and trying keep spirits high and wounds bandaged.

In the wake of Saresh and the opening of the heavens that heralded the storm he'd been so sure was coming, he'd stayed.

There had been a rare moment of happiness when Doc had brought out a hidden bottle of Mantellian brandy and they’d shared it, telling bawdy stories to each other, and imagining ways of getting back at Saresh for so neatly turning Beryon into a scapegoat.

Eventually though, even he had to go.

He had ignored the hand offered to him and hugged Beryon so tightly he felt his ribs creak.

“I’m sorry,” he'd muttered into Beryon's shoulder. “I can’t not help them.”

And so, he'd left the ship with his bag in his hand, sorrow radiating from him as he stepped into a war zone, ready to lend his skills to the wounded.

Beryon had felt him go, some part of him going with him.

He sits there now, in silence, surrounded by ghosts.

He has their holofrequencies, but they’re of little use to him.

He's a wanted man now, in the wake of Saresh's betrayal, and the Order is barely admitting he's still part of it. He can’t

It's all he can do to keep fighting, even if he only saves a dozen lives and taken two dozen more, just to remind Zakuul that not everyone will roll over and show their belly.

He'll fight and raid and tear at the so-called Eternal Empire until he's too broken to keep going.

Then he'll pull himself up with shattered hands and fight some more.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he's trying to keep himself from buckling under silence and the crushing weight of responsibility, and the sounds of a marketplace blown to pieces with the people still inside.

Something nudges his hand, and he instinctively splays his fingers to find out what it is.

There’s a low whine, and warmth blooms in his chest.

“T7 = worried.” The little droid beeps at him, and Beryon is sure the tone is admonishing. “Jedi = hurt. Jedi ≠ careful.”

He grins, tired and swimming in pain.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I got caught up in something.”

There's a pause, and Beryon can feel the warmth emanating from the droids’ chassis. It's not much, but he keeps his hands there anyway.

“T7=missed Jedi.” The droid whines, moving closer, nudging his hand. “Jedi=gone for days.”

Beryon sinks into his friends’ company desperately, needing it. The little mech offers a kolto patch from his internal kit.

He takes it and gets comfortable, wincing as he removes enough clothing to get to skin. The wound throbs as he presses the kolto patch over it. A cool feeling begins to emanate from the spot, and he sighs in relief.

The ship doesn’t seem quite so empty now.

“Sorry T7,” he mutters keeping his hand on the little droid as he if he might disappear if let go. “I'm glad I’ve still got you.”


End file.
